It is never really until whatever flight I am on is hovering over Heathrow that I let myself go and begin to think of home. To my mind, the most likely reason for that is a fairly long history - now - of having lived in many places which were never really home. The current iteration of this is is a shadow of a Wadi somewhere, where one is as likely to be held up a long trail of camels crossing a road as to be in long tail backs from cars a few kilometres further in the centre of the city.
One would like to think of Home as a permanent place, a centre where one returns to from time to time as the pendulum that is the orbit of life swings to and fro. But I am learning that perhaps every pit stop on the swing of life is a little home, really